Heart Craving by Sandra Hill

don’t serve men.”
    Paula knew she’d made a mistake almost immediately. She downed the rest of her glass of wine in a big gulp as Nick rose in one fluid motion and pushed her gently to the cushions. “Of course, you are right, Zara. I will serve you.”
    And he did.
    Half reclining on the cushions, sipping at the second glass of wine Nick handed her, Paula had trouble concentrating. Perhaps it was the effects of the alcohol. More likely, it was the enticing feel of Nick’s fingers against her lips, feeding her rice with slivers of succulent lamb, bite-sized pieces of pita bread dripping with honey, marinated olives, and sweet dates.
    Along the way, somehow, she’d begun to feed him as well. He lay on his side, leaning on one elbow, with a tray of food between them. His expression was hungry and lustful, and she thrilled at the knowledge that food was only the appetizer in this delicious foreplay.
    When she placed a pomegranate seed inside his mouth, he held her wrist in place and sucked the pulp surrounding the kernel till she finally removed it from his mouth. Over and over, she repeated the procedure, fascinated by the play of light and shadow on his flexing cheeks, increasingly excited by the abrasion of his tongue on her thumb and forefinger.
    “I would like to do the same with your nipples,” he said huskily, holding her eyes.
    And when she put the next seed in his mouth, she felt each pull in her breasts.
    “Do you feel it, Zara?”
    She couldn’t answer, but he knew. He knew.
    “Bare your breasts for me, slave.”
    She had probably had too much to drink. That could be the only explanation for her even considering doing as he asked. Sitting up, she watched as he removed the tray between them. Then, slowly, she drew her bolero apart and over her shoulders.
    Nick made a low growl of approval.
    She lay back down, feeling as seductive as the Bedouin princess she pretended to be. Nick gazed at her like a thirsty man who just arrived at a sand-locked oasis, about to be offered his first cup of water. And Paula realized that the last thing in the world she wanted was to make him suffer.
    “Arch your back, Zara, like a cat. Purr for your master. Can you purr?”
    She could. And she did.
    The Middle Eastern music thrummed around them, exotic and sexually compelling.
    All of Paula’s blood seemed to center and pump rhythmically in the fullness of her breasts, which she offered to him wantonly. Leaning back on both elbows, she threw her head back with shameless abandon, concentrating all her attention on the pebble-hard tips.
    She was no longer Paula. She was a desert princess, and Nick was her sheik, the answer to her most intimate dreams.
    Tossing aside his headdress, he rose to his knees at her side, his adoring eyes raking her body.
    With his hands at his sides, he bent forward, and his hot breath fanned her breast as he whispered, “You are my beloved, and I am your slave.”
    Paula keened aloud then with the intensity of her need and arched higher, forcing her nipple against his lips. He chuckled softly with delight.
    “No, I am the slave. I must be a slave to bend to your will so easily,” she whispered.
    When he kissed the taut buds, then drew on them gently and laved them with his tongue, she began to whimper and tried to pull away. Wave after wave of pleasure mingled with pain washed over her, and Nick put one arm under her back to hold her in the arched position. He would not let her escape now.
    For long minutes he played the two hardened “seeds,” overt marks of her overwhelming arousal. Alternately, he used his lips and tongue and teeth to nip and caress, suck and blow, flick and press.
    Her thighs grew rigid as she strained, fighting against the onslaught of her approaching climax. “Stop. It’s too much. Please. Oh. Please.”
    But he would not comply. “Yield, Zara,” he coaxed her in a thickened voice. “Surrender to me.”
    Then, suddenly, he stopped and stood, pulling her to her feet.